Zen Garden
by Wintertime
Summary: Greg finds his inner peace. Sort of.


**Title: **Zen Garden

**Summary: **Greg finds his inner peace.  Sort of.

**Notes: **This is complete and utter fluff, for the most part, taking place post – "Inside the Box."  There's not much of the dark angst or the hilarious humor - - it's a pretty light piece.  Just telling you.

**Disclaimer: **Much as I'd like to, I don't own CSI, and I didn't make any money from writing this.

He drew a wavy pattern of lines in the sand, combing the grains apart with a fingertip.  He circled around one of the small stones, creating a spherical image, like an onyx-studded eye, staring back at him.  Two circles.  Three.  A graceful figure-eight, and then an eight lying on its side - - the symbol of eternity.  A few others.  The motion was almost hypnotic, and he felt his eyes start to close.  The lab faded away around him, leaving behind just curlicues in a Zen garden.

"Are you a Buddhist, Greg?"

He looked up guiltily, as if he'd been caught at something far worse than doodling in the sand.

"No.  I just like the gardens," he said.  "And, you know, feng shui.  You know me - - man of a million hobbies."

Grissom held his clipboard absently, as if he'd forgotten what he'd come to ask.  He looked thoughtful instead.  "Zen gardens are soothing.  I've always considered them to be the poor man's version of meditation."

"I don't meditate," Greg said.  "Too impatient - - can't sit still long enough."

Grissom examined his garden.  "Interesting.  Eternity?  And an ankh."

"Also squiggles," Greg said, in case Grissom found his Zen garden too pretentious.  He pointed them out.  "And some little circles."

"You ought to have the proper tools," Grissom said, adjusting his glasses and peering at the maze of lines running through the six-by-six sandbox.  "A wooden rake, at least, I think.  Just a small one."

"It's cool," Greg said.  "I just get sand on my fingers."

"A person who has a hobby ought to be able to indulge it properly," Grissom said.  "Besides, you can't afford to get sand mixed in with your samples.  I think I have some old Zen gardening tools lying around in my office."

Greg decided not to ask.  Of course Grissom would have Zen gardening equipment in his office.  Why not?

"I did some Zen gardening in college," Grissom said, looking at him with interest.  "It's calming.  Takes away some of the stress - - some of the tension.  Do you find that it has the same effect?"

It steadied his hands.  It took the jittery, nervous feelings out of him.  His fingers never trembled when he was tracing designs in the sand.  Besides, he liked the symbols.  There were a few Japanese characters in there that Grissom either hadn't noticed or hadn't understood.  Flight.  Serenity.  Meaning.

"Calming," Greg agreed.  "Yeah, I think so."

"The Japanese," Grissom said.  "What does it mean?"

Greg thrust his shaking hands under the desk, abruptly nervous once more.  He lied quickly, "Spontaneity.  Freedom.  Creativity."

"Not serenity, flight, and meaning?"

Caught.

Greg scowled.  "If you already knew, you shouldn't have asked.  I didn't even know you could read Japanese."

"Two years of it in college.  I didn't you could write Japanese."

Greg shrugged.  "Four years of it in high school."

Grissom didn't look like he was going to let the subject get away from him easily.  His hand hovered over the garden, outlining the kanji just above the surface.

"Why were you ashamed of what you wrote?"

"I'm not _ashamed_," Greg said, trying his best to imply that such an assumption was both wrong and ridiculous.  "I just didn't want to catch you off-guard."

Grissom's hand dropped down carefully into the garden, and, after a brief hesitation, drew a figure in Japanese.  Surprise.  It was nestled between serenity and flight, and part of it was curled around one of the onyx stones.

"Catching people off-guard isn't necessarily a bad thing, Greg."

"I guess you're going to tell me that lying is, though."  He felt a little bad about it, too.  Not a lot, but a little.  "Sorry."

"I wouldn't call it a serious matter," Grissom said, and sketched another symbol.  Forgiveness.  It hung over surprise, smudging one of the meaningless squiggles.  Then he traced acceptance in the left corner, and, floating near it, understanding.

Apparently, Grissom was far better at having emotional conversations in Japanese thane he was with having them in English.

Grissom lifted his hand from the garden.  "Would you like the tools?  They're old - - probably ancient by your standards - - but they're still good shape."

"Sure.  Thanks.  I mean, if you're sure that you - - "

Grissom smiled.  "Feng shui, Greg.  They're helping clutter up my office right now, anyway.  They ought to be put to better use than ornamentation."

Grissom turned to leave, his clipboard still tucked under his arm.  Greg stared at his still-empty desk, and called him back.

"Grissom!  Didn't you have something for me?  Samples?  Instructions?  Info?"

Grissom looked mildly perplexed.  "No."

"But - - "

"Just checking on you," Grissom said.  "You were quiet.  It was making everyone nervous."

Greg grinned.  It felt good to smile again.  "Tell them I'm sorry."  His hands felt steady; more firmly anchored to his wrists.  The tendons didn't quiver as he put them back on top of the desk.

"I'll tell them," Grissom said pleasantly, "that you're gardening."

"Catching people off-guard?"

Grissom shrugged.  "I've always enjoyed it."

Greg drew a smiley-face in the sand.  It looked completely out-of-place, mixed in with the Japanese characters and the dark, forbidding Egyptian ones.

He liked it anyway.


End file.
